


la petit mort

by orphan_account



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, M/M, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 13:31:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cristiano wakes up, the first thing he realizes is that he's dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	la petit mort

 

When Cristiano wakes up, the first thing he realizes is that he's dying.  
  
There's an ominous, almost peaceful feeling of nothingness all around him.

His fighter plane is far off in the distance, in pieces, scattered in the dying grass like little white and gray and burnt black pebbles.

There are the still fresh corpses of other dead soldiers (of both sides) littering the scorched forest where Cristiano is currently located.  
  
 _I'm probably going to join them soon_ , Cristiano thinks; not really frightened at all, which should be a little worrying.

But Cristiano has long since resigned himself to dying, once he was drafted, so in a way; that, at least, made sense.  
  
Come to think of it, not a lot of things made sense concerning this stupid war between Portugal and Brazil, but then again; that was usually the case so he really shouldn't be surprised.  
  
Cristiano is lying on his back, blood pooling near his heart, staining his uniform a beautifully dark red.

 _It hurts so fucking much_ , he quietly thinks to himself, wishing; not for the first time in his life, that he would stop being such a stubborn motherfucker and just, _die_ already.

There's a bunch of shrapnel embedded deep into his heart, but somehow, he's feebly clinging onto life.  
  
It sorta reminds him of his older brother Hugo.

When Cristiano was little, Hugo would read him these American comic books (Cristiano, to this day has no idea where Hugo could have gotten them) of this amazingly intelligent but arrogant man who had shrapnel lodged in his heart, but made a device to stop the shrapnel from killing him, which also powered a metal suit he built to fight crime.

What was he called?  
  
" _Iron Man_ ," chuckles Cristiano bemusedly after finally remembering the superhero's name, to a dead Brazilian soldier nearest to him.

There are twelve bullet holes sticking out of the poor guy's throat.  
  
Ouch.  
  
 _The Portuguese are kind of bastards_ , muses Cristiano, _even if I am one. Twelve shots is definitely overkill. One or two probably would have sealed the deal._  
  
After staring at the dead soldier's frozen, slack-jawed expression of shock for a few minutes, Cristiano looks away, inexplicably guilty all of a sudden.  
  
At least the sky is beautiful. Cristiano has always been good at finding something to look forward to in the bleakest of situations.  
  
His mãe once called it a gift of his.  
  
 _That and futebol._  
  
There is nothing but the moon and the stars painting the darkness with glittering lights, and Cristiano; though slowly bleeding to his death, is the only living thing around to appreciate it.

It's almost a shame that no one else is still somewhat _alive_ to see all of this. But dying in a place like this is probably okay, if the boundless night sky is the last thing Cristiano will ever see.  
  
He closes his eyes.  
  
\----------  
  
Cristiano is startled into consciousness, with the oddest feeling that he's being watched, which is _weird_ because shouldn't he be dead right now?  
  
He painfully lifts only his head.

The rest of his body is understandably protesting doing any sort of movement, seeing that his heart is supposed to be bleeding out.

And it is, but yet again, Cristiano is still alive.  
  
Out of nowhere, a shadow looms imposingly into his field of vision.  
  
It's a man, who's very much alive.  
  
A very handsome man; slightly pale, with thick brown hair, and funnily enough, manly eyebrows.

Overall, the man looks very charming, in Cristiano's humble opinion.  
  
Cristiano lays his head right back down.  
  
"Hi," hoarsely croaks out Cristiano, at a loss for what else to say to some random-ass Brazilian civilian who's probably glad to see him dying in some random-ass forest.  
  
The handsome Brazilian cilivian starts, looking at Cristiano like he's frankly shocked to see a half-dead man speaking to him.

His face flushes as if he was embarrassed or ashamed, which Cristiano does not understand at all, but finds pretty endearing.  
  
"Hello," the man drawls uncertainly back, pointedly staring at the blood dripping from Cristiano's prone body.  
  
"Is there-" he stops, fidgets uncomfortably, then speaks again. "Is there anything I can do to help?  
  
"Nope," laughs Cristiano, without a care in the world. The man is looking at Cristiano like he's mental, but Cristiano really has no other explanation to offer him.  
  
 _I guess I'm glad I'm not dying alone surrounded by dead bodies, after all_ , supposes Cristiano, decidedly relieved.

The very thought dulls the overwhelming pain a little, and Cristiano is content with just that small bit of mercy.  
  
The handsome man now looks infinitely more distressed than before, if that was even possible. Almost as if he could read Cristiano's mind: what Cristiano was just contemplating.  
  
That's kinda suspicious.  
  
Or maybe Cristiano was talking out loud without realizing it?

He _has_ lost a lot of blood.

 _Is_ still losing blood.

It was possible.  
  
"It's okay," Cristiano reassures his newfound companion, whose face falls even more when he spies fresh blood now running down Cristiano's lip.

"You don't have any obligation to help me. I'm Portuguese so you'd be doing a good deed for your country pretending you didn't see me."  
  
"How could you say something like that?!" bursts out the man, his handsome face scrunched up in angry disbelief.

"Are you not afraid of dying?" he spits out, dark eyes shining like the blackest blazing stars.  
  
His expression then softens, as well as his voice. "Don't you have anyone waiting for you at home?"  
  
The genuinely compassionate question from a complete stranger lingers heavily in the air, almost tangible.  
  
Cristiano thinks of his mãe, pai, Elma, Hugo, and Cátia.  
  
But they've all been claimed by the war.  
  
His pai and Hugo enlisted, long before the draft, and were both killed in action.

The death notification letters said that their deaths were only hours apart.  
  
As for his mãe and the girls, Cristiano remembers coming back home one day after a futebol match; finding their little tin shack ransacked and his remaining family dead, blood running from their lifeless bodies.

He doesn't recall much of that day, though he remembers his futebol tumbling from his unfeeling fingers to the ground, splattering the blood of his sisters and mãe across the floor like it was red paint.  
  
That image has haunted his dreams every night.  
  
"No," Cristiano finally replies, after what feels like an eternity in hell. "I don't have anyone."  
  
He doesn't mean to sound so forlorn and broken. For that reason, Cristiano smiles at the man, but his vision gets blurred by a sudden and unwelcome deluge of tears. He can't see anything anymore, but keeps smiling because it is the only thing he can do.  
  
He smiles until it starts to add on to the hurt that he's already feeling from the blood slowly dripping out of him.      
  
Cristiano feels long fingers lightly caressing his too-cold-face.  
  
There is a kind hand grasping his; a thumb rubbing soothing circles into the surface of his skin, radiating sincerity.  
  
"D-don't misunderstand," sobs out Cristiano thickly, like a petulant kid. "I'm not afraid of dying."  
  
And he isn't.

He hasn't been ever since he realized he was all alone in the world.  
  
"I guess I just," he sniffs quietly, "miss them."  
  
 _My family._  
  
Cristiano vaguely wonders if the man understands him.  
  
The man says nothing.

The only action he takes is maneuvering his body so that Cristiano's head is now resting comfortably on his lap.  
  
\----------  
  
"A man with nothing to lose is the most dangerous," offers Cristiano, after a moment of silence.  
  
The man looks down at Cristiano and just blinks, seemingly puzzled.

His eyebrow arch higher, silently pressing Cristiano to go on.  
  
"That's the only thing Lieutenant General Carvalho said to General Figo, after he asked if I was ready to fight." Cristiano explains pedantically.  
  
"I was listening from behind the door," then admits Cristiano, the very picture of shamelessness.  
  
"You're still too young," murmurs the handsome man, choosing to ignore Cristiano's guiltless confession.

He's grasping Cristiano's limp hand tightly, but not enough to hurt.  
  
"Hey!" Cristiano protests just a little defiantly. "You don't even look much older than I do!"  
  
The man sighs in what must be a mixture of defeat and fond exasperation, briefly rubbing at his face.  
  
"I meant-not _too young_ to fight, but _too young_ to have nothing to lose," he clarifies.  
  
Cristiano starts to ponder the man's words, but his body slowly starts to slacken.  
  
But this time, Cristiano _knows_.  
  
His blood runs fiery hot against his frigid skin; still lazily dripping out of his heart and wounds like murky, scarlet pearls.  
  
His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks like butterflies slowly fading away.  
  
 _Death._  
  
The man is trembling, hand clasped around Cristiano's like a vice grip.  
  
He shifts his body so he is looking right into Cristiano's eyes.  
  
He looks so lost and goddamn _terrified_.  
  
Cristiano wants to console him, but he doesn't have the strength to even speak.    
  
"I'm sorry," the man finally breathes out, words gently ghosting over Cristiano's ear.  
  
 _Wait. Why-_ Cristiano is conscious enough to wonder.  
  
"But I can't watch you die," the man finishes, hand gingerly reaching under Cristiano's chin.  
  
Lips graze his throat before a sudden stab of pain pierces his neck.  
  
His mouth opens to silent screams.  
   
Some sort of strange energy thrums through his veins, compelling him to open his mind.  
  
There are millions of sensations rocking throughout Cristiano's body; beautiful and terrible at the same time.  
  
Cristiano feels stronger, somehow.

But he feels so empty inside.  
  
Needing.

Wanting.

Craving.  
  
 _Blood. Blood. Blood._  
  
It only stings for a second more and then, his eyes snap open to-  
  
A pale, handsome face in front of him.  
  
Dark eyes turning into burning gold.  
  
Everything goes black, but Cristiano realizes he's not dead.  
  
He's in a place in-between life and death.  
  
There's a voice echoing in his head, commanding him to obey.  
  
'Survive for me, Cristiano.'  
  
'Exist for me, Cristiano.'  
  
The voice is familiar, but at the moment, Cristiano can't recall who it belongs to.  
  
And _how_ does it know his name?...  
  
Strong arms are cradling him to a solid chest but-  
  
There's no heartbeat.

**Author's Note:**

> -This is obviously an AU, and although there actually was a war between Portugal and Brazil February 1822-November 1823(The Independence War), there really is no set timeline for this. Maybe somewhere in the 1900's? Probably a bit after the 1960's because the Portuguese Airforce was formed July 1, 1952 and Iron Man debuted March 1963. I'm trying to mix fact and fiction as best as I can.  
> -I only placed in a few Portuguese words because it just didn't sound right when I was trying to write more in.  
> -If you hadn't already guessed Kaká is the vampire and vampires in fiction vary greatly. I guess the version I'm going with is the kind who can read minds, drink blood, have enhanced physical and mental capabilities, glowing gold eyes, and no heartbeat. Yeah, I don't really know how that last part works, but it is vampires we're talking about. I thought the "no heartbeat" thing was creepy enough for me to like.


End file.
